


Calligraphy

by iskra667



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Marking, Possession, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iskra667/pseuds/iskra667
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis questions Lestat's penmanship...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calligraphy

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote for a VCkinkmeme request about possession/marking.
> 
> Warning: unfinished! There is a section missing near the end, marked by [...] However the missing section was pure descriptive porn, none of the power play, so the fic makes sense as is.

He lay there on his stomach, his arms gracefully folded by his sides, his fists in tight balls, gripping, perhaps, some dream object known to his mind only. Propped on my elbow, I just watched him, mesmerized. I had satisfied him to this present state of blissful exhaustion. Yes, that's how good The Vampire Lestat is! 

He was covered in dried blood, my Beloved, purplish bite marks slowly fading away, a vanishing testament to our earlier passion. “Mine! Mine! Mine!” the blood and the bruises chanted in my ears. Yet, as his preternatural flesh slowly obliterated my mark, returning to its creamy perfection, a teasing, nagging little voice invaded the ecstatic chant, cruelly whispering in my ear “You will never have him!”

The old anguish invaded me, then. Always, always, so close, yet, forever, teasingly, maddeningly, out of my reach! I had to have him, but did not dare to disturb his rest. Louis is very particular about his sleep, and can go in a rage if I dare to awaken him before he naturally does so. I remembered reading once that Descartes shared the same little quirk. Was it the side-effect of a philosophical disposition, I wondered, this almost fanatical love of sleep? Whatever it was, it condemned me to an increasingly painful frustration as I waited for him to awake, staring at his beautiful backside. His beautiful backside, not only adorned, outside, with my cruel, bloodied marks, but anointed, inside, with my very own essence. Slick with it, ready and welcoming, begging me to have him again!

I groaned in agony as I felt myself become painfully hard. I had to do something to ease the tension! Softly, lovingly, with the tip of my tongue, I licked the blood away from his firm cheeks, revealing the white perfection underneath. The bruises had completely healed. He quivered softly under my invasion, moaning in his sleep, his legs parting, as though he instinctively recognized my touch, and welcomed it. As though every inch of his flesh knew itself to be mine, however hard his mind tried to deny it. Yes, he was Mine! Behold the wisdom of the flesh!

I kissed the same spot again and, tentatively, ran a sharp fingernail on his skin. He trembled again and sighed lasciviously, still deep in sleep. Emboldened, I pressed my razor-sharp nail further, drawing precise cuts on the surface of his perfect white skin. The cuts were so shallow they healed within seconds, but not before the welling blood left a lasting imprint on his delicious rear-end:

Property of Lestat de Lioncourt, written in blood. And we all know that blood never lies.

Satisfied and reassured, I was about to lick away the clues of my little sin when, rotten luck, he woke up. He knotted his eyebrows as he stared at my handiwork in disbelief, and I thought, that's it, I'm in it, I'm in it for one of those endless nagging sessions, with all his “You don't owe me, Lestat!”, “I'm a free individual, Lestat!”, “I'm not some pretty possession of yours, Lestat!”.

But all he said was “Two centuries to improve yourself and you still write like an illiterate peasant!”. In a haughty, vaguely insulting voice.

I was peeved. What the fuck was I supposed to answer to that? Fair enough, I tend to let my scrawl escape all over the place, but that's part of my arty bohemian charm, isn't it ? I'm not some boring conformist bourgeois bastard who writes neatly within the lines, too damn scared to cross them. No, I'm not! 

“Well, lucky for you then! Working-class men are supposed to have a longer … stamina!” I tossed. Not that I had ever met a working-class man in person, mind you, but I had heard this in a Fassbinder film, so it was bound to be true, wasn't it ? Besides, I was pretty sure Louis had never had a personal encounter with a blue-collar male either, so he had no way of contesting the veracity of my little line!

“You're not working-class, Lestat!” he said, with the bored patience of the good Samaritan explaining birds and bees to a simpleton “You're not even a peasant! You're just decadent, inbred nobility!”

Now, that was plain offensive, and I was having none of that attitude from my fledgling! “Well, Dearest, you remember how old-fashioned noblemen treated the common man, don't you?” I threatened suavely, flinging myself on top of him to claim what was, after all, rightfully mine by law of the blood!

But he got rid of me with one well-aimed kick and said “I don't feel like giving away my virtue to someone who makes such a sloppy job of writing on me!” in the icily haughty tone of an insulted society lady.

“As though you had any virtue left to give!” I said sulkily. I could have pounced on him and overpowered him anytime I liked, of course, but his expression meant business, so I kept myself in check. I could not quite tell whether he was playing hard-to-get in his usual way, or whether he was really sulking, and that screamed for cautiously toeing the line! Cross the line in foolish ignorance, and be faced with endless hours of nagging and weeks of enforced abstinence! Believe me! Been there, done that!

But he lazily folded his arms on the pillow and laid his head on them, peering at me from under his eyelashes. “Try again.” he drawled lasciviously, a hint of fangs in his Mona Lisa smile. Such a poisonous tease, he was! Displaying his beautiful, bloodied backside in my face like this, but with his legs neatly aligned, screaming “No entry lest you pass the test!” with no hint of ambiguity!

And a written test, as it was! I took hold of his hips to keep him still as I licked him clean of the blood with the tip of my tongue, taking my time, laving him a bit more lasciviously than strictly required to get a clean slate for my assignment. Well, he did not give me the satisfaction to squirm and moan and beg “More, Lestat! Deeper, Lestat!”, not that I expected him to, the arrogant control-freak bastard. He clutched the sheets, shut his eyes tight and his body went a bit rigid, but that was it, really. Hardly more responsive than a blackboard or a sheet of paper for all my efforts' worth and, vaguely offended as I was, I could not help but being impressed by his iron will and self-control. A constant challenge, he was. Well, The Vampire Lestat is always up for a challenge!

I gave a languorous lick along his crease, despite having no intention to get literary down there, and repressed a victorious grin as he jerked and moaned softly. “Is it a timed test ?” I asked very casually, smiling like an eager teacher's pet. He propped himself on his elbows, looked back at me and replied in a tone of relaxed efficiency “No Lestat, we'll just aim for quality, shall we?” And without further ado, he resumed his position and waited, perfectly still.

Using my teeth, I carefully clipped the nail of my right index finger, shaping it into some sort of quill, and stared at the perfect white surface of his ass. Now, that's an occupation I'm quite fond of, but, in those circumstances, I had no time to waste in idle lustful fantasies. No! I was the artist, the poet, and he was my canvas, my velum! And when The Vampire Lestat puts his mind into something, he has to be The Best, or just not bother. So, no daydreaming about his delicious warmth, about the enveloping grip of his muscles on my organ, about his ability to send ripples of delight all along my spine with just minute movements … No! I coldly considered the white surface of his behind and planned the disposition of my letters so they would be neatly aligned and evenly proportioned. A work of Art worthy of my Louis' perfection! 

I kissed my blank page lovingly and got cracking. A work of scientific minutiae. Cuts just deep enough to let the blood flow, leaving the words inked on his skin after the bruises themselves had faded, yet shallow enough to heal almost instantly, only letting out the smallest amount of blood necessary. I did not want rivulets of blood dripping all over my Beloved, making a nasty mess of my Ode to Him! 

I must say he made the job easy for me, not moving once, keeping as still as a statue even though, by the end of my little performance, I could smell the heady scent of hormones spiking his blood, a testimony to his growing arousal. Well, soon enough, he would get to pay me my artist's fee... I stared down at my handiwork, very pleased with myself: “Property of Lestat de Lioncourt”, in neatly aligned, perfectly proportioned letters.

“All done, Darling!” I said, beaming proudly.

He took his time to have a look, stretching languidly like a lazy tomcat, as though taunting me with the play of his muscles undulating under my writing. Then he turned his head back, his mussed hair falling over his eyes, and he casually blew it away to examine my assignment. He frowned and looked at me with desperation in his eyes, the type of fake desperation of the snooty examiner announcing to the bursary student that he's just failed and blown his only ticket to the social elevator, tough luck and best wishes.

“I see you've made a big effort to write straight ...” he said, almost managing to sound genuinely pained “but, Lestat... you slant left and right, and left, and right! That's a sign of emotional instability! How much as I'd like to, and you know how much I'd like to ...” He laid back down on the bed then, lazily resting his head on his folded arms, and continued talking from this languid posture “I can't possibly give myself away body and soul to a potentially dangerous unstable maniac! That would not be … safe!” He gave me such a sweet, apologetic little smile then, but I was not fool enough to miss the evil gleam in his eyes! 

Now, I'm an enlightened man of Reason and had always assumed graphology to be one of those pseudo-sciences mortals invented nowadays, to keep themselves busy now that they have cracked the big mysteries of the Universe, you know those, Mars, atoms and all that rot. But from what he was telling me now, I was almost beginning to think the bloody thing made sense. Unless he was making the whole thing up, to get away with insulting me under the guise of detached scientific observation. That wouldn't be beneath him, believe me. 

I almost screamed in frustration: “But Louis, I am an unstable maniac! That's why you love me! I keep you entertained, drive the boredom away, the weight of the hours and all that melancholy nonsense!” but I stopped myself, because that's just what he wanted. Me publicly (well, in front of him at least...) owning up to mental instability, so that he could go all Grand Prince, and patronize me, and remind me how he always puts up with me, and how lucky I was to have someone as sensible as him to look after me... The Hell if I was going to give him that kind of satisfaction! Oh, I was going to give him some kind of satisfaction, but it would be of the moaning-gasping-tears-in-his-eyes -begging-for-more variety! Louis may be book-smart, but his well-concealed but nevertheless considerable ego made him act foolishly sometimes... Such as starting to play dirty with a notorious maniac... Anyone with a little less overconfidence in their brilliant brain would know not to play dirty with a maniac … because the maniac will always sink lower than you! Well, I was going to show him exactly how low …

“I'm so sorry, Precious, I guess my hand just slipped!” I replied with my best Shakespearean-award-worthy puppy eyes “I know you deserve better, I would never want to cheapen you ! Let me try again, my Sweet ...”

And once again I licked the blood from his behind, though maybe licking was not the appropriate word. No, laving, sucking, taking whole folds of his flesh in my mouth and voraciously sucking at them were more the thing. And for all his self-control he could not help but moan deep in his throat and part his legs wide in invitation, and I grabbed his cheeks to part them and licked him insistently up and down his cleft, and he moaned again and pressed his feet urgently at my sides. He yelped in pain as I thrust a finger inside him and bit him in the sensitive area underneath, drawing blood by mouthfuls. I did not intend to write anything in this most secret place, so I could very well bruise him there. Soon he was making delicious little sounds, and his muscles were clenching my finger helplessly as I teased and stroked him, and drank from him. And I was already crying victory, thinking I had won and he had forgotten everything about this writing nonsense. Until he gathered enough wits to kick me viciously in the ribs and hissed between his teeth “Focus, Lestat!”

Reluctantly, I let him go, and proceeded to sublime my frustrated sex-drive into calligraphic prowess! I cut the same words again, this time in a very neat forward slant expressing my optimistic, proactive nature, and my eternal commitment to support him and ease his melancholy disposition!

“Here you are, my most Adored!” I oozed poisonously, confident he could find no fault in my masterpiece that time, and would have no choice but to bow and surrender in a suitably French way.

Well-acquainted as I might be with his ever-whining and eternally unsatisfied personality, I guess I still did not know him well enough, because he did!

“Lestat...” he said in deepest grief, “have you not been taught that “t”s should not be crossed, but barred from the vertical line towards the right only?” He looked at me with wide, mourning eyes, and I was so speechless with rage that all I could do was glare at him. Only a very sick curiosity as to what pseudo-scientific babble he had managed to invent that time prevented me from burning the contrary little wretch alive on the spot, I swear. “Crossing over the vertical bar of a “t” means complete disregard for the laws of society, a completely ruthless need to always have your own way...” he explained patiently while I kept glaring.

I've never been taught to cross or not cross “t”s or any other letter for that matter, you snooty privileged bourgeois pig! I almost spat. But just in time I remembered that indeed, I had been taught to write my name at the monastery, and it had plenty of “t”s in it. Not that anyone had seemed to care that I defiantly crossed my “t”s back then, it may even have been considered suitably manly in those less sissy-times or, more likely, people had had more pressing fish to fry than all this pseudo-psychological nonsense back then!

“I can't possibly give myself away body and soul to such a lawless psychopath, it would not be...”

“...safe!” I finished for him in what was probably no more than a furious hiss. And he shrugged apologetically and gave me another one of his falsely sweet smiles!

Frustration and rage were storming in me by then, and I wanted nothing more than to bite him. And it would not be one of those erotic love bites he was usually treated to, let me assure you, no it would be the viciously feral bite one gives to cheeky fledglings who forget their rightful place in the big order of things! Oh yes! No swoon-inducing bites, those ones! Though he had spent a few decades with Armand, the little slut, so I would not put it past him to actually get a kick out of the old Coven Master treatment! Such a devious little pervert under his smooth gentlemanly veneer. But he knew full well that I could not bite him viciously, however much I wanted to, because if I did, I would have to wait for the bites to heal before I could start again my writing assignment, which would only prolong my own frustration all the longer. And that's why he was playing those dangerous games with me, the suave bastard. Well, let him make me wait all he wants, he would not know what hit him in the end! Let him make me wait for release, because when I get it, I would fuck him so hard he would not walk straight tomorrow night! Yes, and then I'd take him out somewhere posh … to the Opera! A place that kills me with boredom, but that he loves so much! “I want to please you, my Love... An evening out just for you!” I would ooze suavely in his ear, and he would not be able to protest, because I would already have the tickets, like the perfect lover I could play so well when it suited me to... Yes, I'd take him out to the Opera, where all the conservative bourgeoisie congregate for a civilized evening out, and parade him around smiling smugly all evening long, gently putting an arm around his waist to steady him as he limped and winced, like the most caring and considerate lover... and I would wink salaciously at every mortal who dared to stare at us a little too insistently! Yes, let him have his fun now, because tomorrow night, he'd be sorry! Oh he would hate me afterward, for sure, but then, he always finds excuses to hate me two or three times a week, so I might as well do something to deserve it this time!

And with my brilliant vengeance all plotted in my mind, I proceeded to lick his ass clean one more time, but this time, it was cold, efficient and businesslike, no gentle sucking or teasing. And I think he understood full well I had reached the end of my tether because he kept perfectly still and did not say anything. And I wrote the magic words again, with obsessively maniacal precision, perfectly straight, evenly proportioned letters, in an elegant forward slant displaying my positive nature, yet with respectfully barred “t”s showing my consideration for the laws of society and my total lack of psychopathic tendencies (fingers crossed)... I looked at it and the result was textbook perfect, I'm sure I would have easily passed the test if anyone had been looking for a calligrapher to hand-copy the whole of Shakespeare's archives, not that I needed a job, or particularly appreciated being bossed around, but such a job, I could have enjoyed it, and I could certainly have gotten it fingers-in-the-nose with such a magnificent display of my outstanding penmanship abilities!

I did not bother to tell him anything, that time, I just stared at him in defiance, waiting for his judgment. And he knew better than to tease me too much that time, and immediately turned round to take a look.

“That will have to do” he said in a falsely detached drawl that somehow still betrayed his own awkward mix of edgy anxiety and sexual desperation, “that will have to do, or I'd get so desperate I'd have to call ...” 

He stopped himself just in time, but the way his face suddenly went livid, I knew he had just been about to say “Armand”, and I knew that he knew that I knew! Oh, he did went livid with guilt, and I'm pretty sure at that very moment he experienced exactly how it felt to be me, to speak before thinking, and stupidly hurt the ones you love, and curse yourself for it. And, to his defense, that sort of stuff only happened to him when he got carried away in lust and playfulness, whereas I did it, well, pretty much all the time. But back then, I didn't see any of this. I was just stabbed too deeply to be rational, not that I have much capacity for rationality in the first place. 

Back then, all I could think was: how dare he? How dare he fling Armand in my face like this, the cruel, arrogant, heartless, cheating, selfish bastard?! How dare he fling Armand's name so casually when we were about to have so much fun together, when he constantly dragged David's name out every time he wanted to prove to me what a total bastard I was?! Double-standard hypocritical pompous bourgeois pig! And I had not even slept with bloody David! Not to say that I had not wanted to, at some point, but I had not done it. With him running away to prove a point, and the next time I'd seen him, Louis was with us, constantly staring at me with those silently accusing betrayed puppy eyes. Of course, one look from those eyes, and any chance I'd ever had to maybe have a bit of fun with David was over! And so what if I had indeed considered sleeping with him? You must remember that back then, my One True Love, Yes!, My One and Only, had coldly stared at me while I knelt begging at his feet, dying from pneumonia, and sent me on my way to become some kind of crazy missionary in a dirty jungle full of giant man-eating mosquitoes! Yes! Giant man-eating mosquitoes carrying all kind of nasty diseases, deadly to the frail mortal I had become! So forgive me for considering, for a little while, that passionate love might be widely overrated, and a best-friend-cum-fuck-buddy might be the way to go.

“Is that all I am to you, then?” I yelled, moving away from him in utter disgust “Some pretty toy-boy you call when you need a nice fuck? I don't even know why I expected better, anyway, from some heartless bastard who's never loved anyone. Just shagged some cheap whores in some dark alleys!”

“And don't you go make those eyes at me!” I spat, when he looked at me in distress “You may not like to hear this stuff, but you won't drink yourself to death anymore … because you can't! Because I made you, because I saved you, Louis, when you were that far from some stupid, pointless death!” And I stuck two fingers in front of his eyes to illustrate exactly how far from death he'd been when I found him and made him my eternal mate.

“Because some people can't bear to watch their loved ones die... Those some people who can actually love, that is...” I continued viciously “Unlike some other people who just turn away when somebody's dying of pneumonia at their feet...” That was my killer card, I knew it, and I reveled in cruel satisfaction as I laid it on the table “But I guess there's plenty of fish in the sea for those kind of people... One down, ten lining up for a shag! Or shall I say, plenty of imps in the sea ?...” And I smiled evilly at him in rightful satisfaction as blood tears started to well from his eyes...

Part of me had already calmed down by then, relieved by my liberating little outburst, and this part of me knew that I had gone too far. That he had never meant to be cruel, that he had just been playing the brat, in his very own Louis-way, the way he sometimes does when he gets really horny. But another part of me was getting dark satisfaction from his tears, and that part was thinking: Yes! Let him cry on! Let him learn, for once, what it feels like to have your heart endlessly torn away, coldly dissected on a plate, and mercilessly thrown back in your face! Yes, let him learn how this feels like, the cruel, arrogant, heartless bastard! I've had to live through this for two centuries! Let him get a taste of his own poison for once!

He was curled in a ball facing the wall, by then, and I knew he was crying, even though I could no longer see the tears, nor hear anything either. He was just not the type to make a show of his waterworks the way I do...

“Forget it!” I said gruffly, not knowing what to say or do. And I don't like feeling helpless, even less than I like feeling guilty. But he just kept sobbing silently for a while.

Finally, he turned to face me, sitting with his chin on his knees, hugging himself tightly.

“I can't win by you, Lestat” he said simply. He had stopped crying, though his eyes were still red, and his voice was steady, yet oddly flat and disheartened. “It's true I'd never loved anyone before you, and I thought you liked it, that you'd been my first...” He blushed sweetly, then, embarrassed by the ambiguity of his own phrase. I had not been his first, of course, not technically, yet, somehow, I had been, in the only way that mattered. “But now you call me heartless! But think about it, if I had loved anyone before you, you'd still resent them, wouldn't you? Even though they would be dead for centuries by now.” And even I had to admit to the implacable logic in his words.

“So you see, whatever I do, I can't win” he said again, defeated. “And yes, you know, you've been my first, and my last ...” he repeated tentatively. But the words even though there might have been a few in between hung, unsaid, between us, thick and oppressive as fog.

“So why can't you just be happy with that ?” he finished, a note of despair in his voice, looking up at me almost pleadingly.

Because I can forgive and forget everything, except others laying their hands on you, I desperately longed to say. Bet even I could hear the pathological jealousy in those words, so all I said was “Forget it!”, once more.

“You know it won't do any good if I just forget it ...” he replied darkly, and all I could do was sit myself on the edge of the bed, my back to him, sinking in quiet desperation. Here we go again, I thought. I erupt without thinking, upset him, and then I want to let it go, but he just won't, he wants to drag it on and on, and analyze it in all possible ways, and split hair, and I just don't know what to say anymore. Can't we ever, ever, escape this vicious circle? Are we damned, the way he thinks we are, and is it our punishment? I thought in desperation.

But as I was wallowing deeper and deeper in my own misery, I did not notice him crawling silently across the bed towards me, and I jumped as as he knelt behind me and wound his arms around my neck, and whispered breathily in my ear “You know it won't do any good if I just forget it ...” 

I could have pushed him away then, and I almost did. Tired of his games and his endless riddles. But the plain and simple truth is that I could not be arsed. I had had my fit and my screams, and now I felt strangely tired and detached, and I could no longer be bothered with him. Adrenaline drop, one would say in modern parlance. Or maybe, simply, I was just too busy pondering how much simpler my life would be without a Louis. How much easier, indeed. Be gorgeous and invincible, roam the world, endlessly drunk on the beauties of the Savage Garden, pluck the frail flowers of the mortals swooning at my feet, have my fun with them, a little dalliance if I felt like it, then when the novelty fades, kill them, or let them live if the fancy took me, but, in any case, disappear and move on. Yes, love is a load of rot, if you ask me. So I was thinking all this, and could not be arsed to start another fight. I came to the sad conclusion that he was not worth it. Or maybe, who knows, I'm just a sappy-hearted pathetic fool trying too hard to pose as a cynic, and it just felt too damn good to feel him press himself to me, wound his arms around me and whisper breathy nonsense in my ear. Your guess, your pick. All that matters is that I did not push him away.

He sat on his heels and pressed himself closer as his grip tightened around me. “You always call me yours, but you never really believe it, do you?” he breathed against my ear. He planted a soft kiss on my cheek and continued “What can I do to make you know I'm yours, Lestat? How can I ease you?” He did not wait for an answer though. Encouraged by my lack of belligerence, he slid gracefully around me to settle himself straddling my lap. He knotted his legs around my waist and his arms around my neck, and gently laid hid head in the crook of my shoulder.

“You were my first, Lestat” he confessed in a mere whisper and I knew, that time, he meant it in the biblical way. I could feel his soft breath on the skin of my neck, but could not see his face as he spoke. “Surely you know that.” As a matter of fact, I did not. He had never told me for sure, even though I had often suspected it might have been so. But he had never told me, probably fearing it would only strengthen my already too mighty hold on him. I almost snapped at him and reminded him so, but, again, I did not. Not really knowing why.

“Do you remember that night?” he asked urgently, placing a soft, chaste kiss in the crook underneath my ear, “Do you remember?” Soft and chaste it might have been that kiss, but at that very moment, I could not have imagined anything more erotic. And, oddly, I did not need to read his mind to know instantly what night he was referring to. Not our first time, no. Another night many many years later. That night when, for the first time, he had really abandoned himself in my arms. Oh, he had found his pleasure with me many times before but never in a significantly different way that he would have had with his whores. And he had let me have my wicked way with him, too, possibly believing my nonsense about his fledgling duties. Or, more probably, seeing through my lies but having no mean at his disposal to disprove them, thus resigning himself to comply. Taking, I suspect, a twisted sort of thrill from doing so, a thrill so secret it was secret even to his very own self. But, still, always passive, docile, unresponsive. Polite almost. Except in the midst of our fights where he would spit strings of insults at me. Until that night. That night when he had discovered the pleasure of being mine. Or, more accurately I suspect, allowed himself, finally, to feel this pleasure he had always kept frightfully at bay before. But when he had let go, he had been wild. Wild, and abandoned, and utterly magnificent! I could still remember his face, his tears, his helpless trembling, as though it had happened yesterday, not nearly two centuries ago. And I almost wept at the sweetness of the memory, and I could not help but wound my arms around him, fiercely crushing him to me, and tangle my fingers in his hair, and whisper hoarsely in his ear “Yes, I remember. Of course, Beloved, I remember.”

I wanted to kiss his forehead softly, then, but never had the opportunity to do so, for no sooner had I spoken that he was kissing me passionately, the grip of his arms and legs tightening so as to press himself intently against my skin, his mouth on mine, forcing my lips open with his tongue, desperately seeking mine. I submitted to his kiss, letting him do what he wanted, content to just hold him against me and caress his hair soothingly. 

Finally he broke the kiss and stared at me intently, straight in the eyes. “Do you you have any idea what I feel when I'm yours, Lestat?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “Do you have any idea?” he repeated, but this time he had a little amused smile, and he smoothed my hair away from my forehead, as though I was a child and he found me very silly. He leaned closer and whispered against my lips, so close I could feel the soft brush of his eyelashes on my face. “I feel safe, protected... Like this is my rightful place and I don't have a care in the world... I feel wanted... I feel loved...”

I clawed at his shoulders violently, and growled fiercely “I protect you, Louis, I take care of you, and God knows I want you! And I...” I hesitated, then, a mere fraction of a second, more out of compulsive, deeply ingrained fear than anything else, and I knew I would have said it, eventually, but he shushed me with a soft kiss, and purred “I'm yours, Lestat. You don't need to say anything to win me... I'm already yours.”

[...]

 

I looked down at him, then, at the point where our bodies were joined, and saw my earlier writing. Property of Lestat de Lioncourt, written in blood, on the very backside into which I was pounding. The letters were now illegible, of course, smeared by the frantic friction of my skin against his. But I knew what they spelled, because I was the one who had carved them there, on his flesh. Because he had let me do so. And just the knowledge of this was enough to send me over the edge right there, and I released deep in him with a strangled cry.

I almost collapsed and gripped his waist firmly to steady myself. “Lie down.” I ordered, my voice hoarse with spent passion “Careful!”. He obeyed, knowing what I wanted, and I followed him, laying full length atop him, keeping my limp organ still inside him. I didn't want to let go just yet. I could feel myself dripping from him as he moved, and the very thought was making my head spin.

“Are you mine ?” I growled, kissing his neck fiercely and entwining our fingers together. 

“Yes! Yes! I'm yours!” he replied urgently, gripping back my hands feverishly, pressing my fingers to his adoring lips “You can have me anytime, anywhere you want! Don't even ask! Just take me! I'm yours, Lestat! Write it all over me again if you want to!”.

I knew, of course, that this was the post-coital daze speaking, not really my Louis, his normally sharp brain currently addled by the heady rush of hormones coursing through his blood. Tomorrow, he'd be himself again and think otherwise. But just now, I could trick myself into believing it, and it felt so damn good to pretend.

Fin!


End file.
